“Don’t Start Your Day With The Broken Pieces Of Yesterday. Every Day Is A Fresh Start.”

“I’ve learned people are made of layers and sometimes you have to wait until the next one is revealed.”

— @sixwordssayitall

Where do you start when you feel despondent? not the feeling about being alone. However, the only factor. nowhere to fit. being nothing in a world that is something.

When your voice falters, your heart beats in trembling clef rhythms; but, when you do feel stronger, why does it fade?

No depression. No isolation. a feeling of separation on the inside. How can you fight that sensation? There are no materials. no substances

My words are failing, and the pen is on the page. I'm eagerly awaiting the boomerang-like return of my hopes.

Where do I go now that I feel so alone?

Here. I came here. It was noted down.

From: Angie💋

To: Your self right now. It'll all be okay. 🖤

@yung_pueblo

𝑱𝒂𝒏, 5𝒕𝒉 97’

In love with someone looks like an adventure that never ends. It's as if you're walking a never-ending journey. Love sounds like a conqueror. Budding its way through life are two people who are making their lives about each other.

The word conquer keeps coming up in my writings, because there is a huge part of me that wants that to be, known as my love. Not that I want to conquer someone; rather that they conquer me. I'm always at the top of my game. I'd like to go down.

You have to be with me where the conversations are endless. That the silence is as loud as laughter. You need to wear the ringing dissonance of anger that comes only seconds after a heated argument. You must conquer me. Recite poetry with me. Cry with me. Laugh with me.

It's the likelihood of being caught that creates "danger." Unless you believe that whatever you do will enrich your life, there is no true danger.

— Solo—

She felt most like herself between the break of dawn and the start of a new day. While passing her eyes quickly over the script in front of her, Angelina stuck the final sticky note in her journal. A strand of her platinum blonde hair was doodled and knotted by her free hand. Her schedule was as disorganized as her mind. Unorganized and unsure, but extremely feasible.

Angelina had never been happier as she planned the next few stages in her career. Her third person perspective story, was published in LIFE magazine last week. She had gained confidence in her acting abilities and was firmly established. But, the sheer satisfaction of being a writer, however, produced more dopamine than any Golden Globe, Oscar, or honor from an acting guild. Every action stunt the stunning actress ever performed was eclipsed by that sensation. She pushed her personal journal closer to herself while tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

She would have appeared insane to anyone who had been looking if they had. She may have been schizophrenic based on the way she gnawed on her lower lip when concentrating. As she recorded the racing ideas and epiphanies, her big eyes grew larger and more intense. Angelina's writing was inspired by the conviction that nothing in the outside world could ever equal to the apocalyptic feeling she experienced. She felt deeply theatrical in everything, and her writing technique reflected that.

What came next? The phrase "writers block" was never one Angelina like using. She really preferred to imagine her ideas as lightning strikes. Inconspicuous sparks and soft lightning. The third-person narrative of her article depicted the disasters that befell unfortunate people on the planet. Naturally, the general population believed Angelina was unaware of the world's calamities.

“𝑊𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛... 𝐼𝑛 𝑤𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑦𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑡?”

Based on her humanitarian travels, Angelina had written it from a distance. Additionally, she had written that from a faint sense of self-awareness. She nevertheless encountered criticism from the public.

With the pen in her hand, writing, crossing out, scribbling, she penned her bold perspectives. Her mind was struggling mightily to keep up as her black ink doused across the lined paper. Would she make this public? There was no answer. Maybe she would be the only one to see this project. Maybe she would publish a book every six years. Or maybe, just maybe, in the future she'd make the move from actress to author slowly but surely.

Stuck at her kitchen table in the upright posture. Her mind, reeling from the furious ideas, eyes fixed on the paper, and mouth slightly parted. The blue-eyed beauty interrupted her limited amount of focus to look around the untidy table for a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette, taking a dainty puff of nicotine, and exhaled deeply.

Just the sprinkling of morning sunlight; no music, lights, or TV. Beautiful sunshine was pouring through her blinds, illuminating various rooms in her opulent house. Serenely lovely; unquestionably a source of inspiration and incentive for Angelina to keep writing.

The bottom of her page was coated with ashes as she scrawled the final words. The majority of this piece of work was incoherent. But it had the qualities of an excellent phenomenon. The actress murmured softly as she ran her hand through her hair.

Angelina wasn't motivated to write because she wanted to become a well-known novelist. Knowing that perhaps her writing might reach someone was an art. Someone who required the words: ‘𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧— 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥-𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.’

Of course, Angelina might have tried her hand at writing romantic, adventure, or film noir-style stories. But how tightly can the soul grasp that?

She believed that romance could begin from anything, in her warped and wicked mind. The intense desire to triumph over such catastrophes could be perceived as romantic and exciting. Standing up from the chair, she looked at the morning sun. Her scripts, notes, and camera were all scattered across the table. Each and every one of Angelina's exploding personalities.

Angelina Jolie by Michel Bourquard; 1994

- Mahmoud Darwish from 'Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut c. 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)

10/2—

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.

“Jhst thinking...how nothing last.”

Sad and true. Yet, there's a small call of realism...and the ache of memories to always be saved. Until then...💋